


the cure for anything

by karadeniz



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, by this family when they started watching the show?, i was gonna watch this casually and now i'm a sad clown lying face down in a ditch, who else here didn't sign up for getting emotionally wrecked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karadeniz/pseuds/karadeniz
Summary: Everyone on Skellige was born with two homes – the Isles and the sea. Most of them died there, too.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Eist Tuirseach, Pavetta & Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 24
Kudos: 104





	the cure for anything

* * *

_The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea – Karen Blixen_

* * *

Everyone on Skellige was born with two homes – the Isles and the sea. Most of them died there, too.

**i.**

There had been a 'before'.

He watched the child closely. Leaning over the railing, strands of hair flying wild around her face – cheeks red from the salt, and excitement.

"Not so far, girl, or you'll fall."

"I won't fall." Her laughter was carried by the breeze. "How much further to Skellige?"

"15 sea miles." He closed his hand around the back of her tunic, holding her tight when the waves rocked their ship.

"Don't let her fall."

"I won't," he promised the young woman who had appeared by their side with a laugh, "or I'd throw myself right after her, before I'd face the hell your own mother would unleash upon me on our return."

Pavetta put her hands on the railing, and leaned her head back, closing her eyes in quiet happiness.

"Ciri, my darling, can you taste it?"

"Taste what, mama?"

"Freedom."

"It's just salt," he'd teased his step-daughter, but she shook her head with a smile.

"No, it's more than that."

They spent their summer together on the Isles, two weeks of building castles in the sand, collecting shells from the beach and Eist teaching the girls how to sail.

When they returned, Calanthe welcomed them back with wide arms and a twinkle in her eyes, golden-brown in the afternoon sun.

"Home at last, my brave adventurers."

He kissed her right there and then, not caring if anyone saw, because it had been two weeks and god, he had missed her.

When he fell into bed that night, her skin was warm and the sheets smelled of her. How he'd missed that, too.

**ii.**

There was also an 'after'.

On Skellige, the dead were given to the sea, laid on narrow boats and send with the tides, to be taken to another shore. Their last farewell. Sometimes, the sea took what had not been given, too. 

Ciri bounced back like only a child could, early memories blurring with new, happy ones. Memories of running around in the gardens, shrieking wildly while being chased by her grandfather. Pulling pranks on her poor tutor, who endured them with resigned patience. Exchanging silly banter with her grandfather during formal banquets until her grandmother threatened to lock them _both_ in their rooms like the children they were being.

Calanthe came back from it, too, and if he had not fully understood how strong his wife was before, he did now. She had pulled herself out of it, for Ciri, for her kingdom – and for him, and there were no words for the love and gratitude he felt for that. So he showed her, in the quiet but unwavering support he gave her in her decisions, in the jokes he cracked to coax an eye-roll or a smile out of her. In the way he touched her behind closed doors.

Afterwards, he kissed the beads of sweat from her shoulder blades, running the tips of his fingers along her spine.

"What are you smiling about?" she asked him, voice muffled from the pillow she'd half buried her face in.

"How do you know I'm smiling?" he replied, with a smile.

"I just know."

He huffed out a laugh, and brushed away the strands of hair from her neck, to press a kiss there, too.

There was an 'after' for them, and most of it was good.

**iii.**

It was the six months in-between that he remembered the most. The days were grave, the nights were battles. Calanthe had shut down, face stoic like the stones surrounding them, the raging fire that had fueled the first few weeks of grief having died and turned into ash, into nothing. A perfect facade of an indestructible queen, for everyone to see. A facade crumbling in the dark of night, shattering into sweat and tears, with only him as witness – helpless, like a man watching a kingdom fall. She refused his kindness, and his touch.

 _Damn you! Damn you, and those god-forsaken Isles._ There were no more accusations. There was nothing much of anything.

If it wasn't his wife fighting demons at night, it was the child in the next room. Like many times before, he'd taken the shaking girl into his arms and held her, rocked her like a gentle sea would rock a ship, telling her story after story until she fell asleep; her little head resting on his shoulder.

Sleep came for him, then, shallow and restless, until a gentle brush against his forehead stirred him back into consciousness.

_"Calanthe."_

The tips of her fingers were cold, and she looked worn and tired as she settled down across from him, eyes falling on the child in his arms.

"She hasn't been sleeping well," he explained. "Nightmares. I could hear her wail all the way through the wall. This little thing has one mighty organ."

The corners of her mouth lifted into a half-smile, and it was the first one he'd seen in months. Not since her daughter had been lost at sea. It disappeared as quickly as it came.

"I had expected you to run by now," she said.

He shook his head, not understanding. "Run where?"

"Home."

Her voice was perfectly flat, her expression schooled, but the single word – no, the implication of it, twisted in his gut, and made his heart ache. He lifted the girl up, gently placing her back in her bed, before lowering himself to his knees in front of his wife. Her hands felt cold in his own.

"I am home." Her mouth opened, ready to argue, and he knew her too well, so he beat her to it. "Not these walls – you."

He saw her eyes overflow with emotion, only for a moment, before she squeezed them shut, trying to keep everything inside. The tears escaped, anyway, and he kissed them away. They tasted of salt, and it was the most familiar thing.

Like everyone on Skellige, he was born with two homes. The third, he'd chosen for himself. 

**iv.**

They were losing, bodies on bodies of enemy soldiers drowning them. They were losing, and he'd faced too many storms not to know, not to know when it was the end. He caught her eyes, for just a moment. A silent exchange to let her know: He'd fight by her side until the end–

 _– and when I can fight no longer, I'll find you on another shore._

Death came for him in between a heart's beat.

**Author's Note:**

> 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯_𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩


End file.
